The Sunflower: A Novel

by Evans, Richard Paul

  “It’s nice talking to you, whatever the language,” Christine said. She looked down at the hacienda. A single light flickered from the kitchen. She pulled her hair back over her ears. Then she leaned back on her arms and looked back at him. “So how do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Leave everything behind. You’re a doctor; you must have had a pretty good life in America.”

  Paul looked suddenly thoughtful. “ ‘The secret of success in this life is to realize that the crisis on our planet is much larger than just deciding what to do with your own life. The only work that will ultimately bring any good to any of us is the work of contributing to the healing of the world.’ ”

  “That was profound.”

  Paul rubbed his chin. “That was Marianne Williamson. I wish I really were that noble. But I’m no Mother Teresa. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here. I still fantasize about the ‘good life’ Of course my idea of the good life is different now. Luxury is an air-conditioned room, a TV with a clear signal and a shower with more than five minutes of hot water. But then I think, what is my comfort compared to the lives of these children?

  “And there are millions where they came from. Kids sniffing glue to take away the pain of an empty stomach. Kids sold into slavery. There are actually tour groups that bring American men down here to have sex with children. You read about these things, and you can either try to do something about it or just wince and turn the page to the crossword puzzle. Too many are turning the page. Not so much because they don’t care but because it’s not on their doorstep. And most of us don’t venture that far from our routines.”

  “You’re making me feel guilty.”

  “That’s probably not a bad thing,” he said. “But that’s not my intent. I’m as guilty as anyone. I didn’t come down here to help children. It just happened to land on my doorstep.”

  “When you came down to surf…”

  “To rob banks,” he said, laughing a little. “We’re talking too much about me. Tell me something about Christine.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Something…revealing.”

  “My failed engagement and childhood abandonment weren’t revealing enough?”

  “No, that was pretty revealing. But I was thinking something lighter. Like what’s your favorite movie of all time?”

  “My favorite movie. Old or new?”

  “Either.”

  “I should probably say something that makes me seem hip like Citizen Kane or The Godfather, but honestly I’d have to say Cinema Paradiso.”

  “A love story,” Paul said. “That is revealing.”

  “Not just any love story. One of the greatest love stories of all time. Have you seen it?”

  He nodded. “I have. So was Alfredo right? Does the fire of love always end in ashes?”

  She thought about it. “Probably,” she said sadly. She looked to see his reaction. “What do you think?”

  “I think passion ends in ashes: But it’s just as well. Passion should give way to better things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Real love. The way my father is with my mother.”

  “How is that?”

  “Do you know anything about ALS?”

  “Not much.”

  “Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis,” Paul said, sounding like the doctor he was. “It’s a disease that causes the degeneration of the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. Eventually the body just shuts down.

  “The average life span of someone with ALS is three to five years. My mother’s almost completely paralyzed now. She can no longer speak or write. She’s a prisoner of her own body. The only thing she can move is the forefinger on her right hand. At night she taps her finger against the bedpost when she hurts. My father wakes up and gives her her pain medicine. He hasn’t slept through the night for years. He’s always with her.” He looked into Christine’s eyes. “He’s given up everything he loves for what he loves most. Her.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Christine said softly.

  “I asked him how he did it, how he could give up so much for her. What he said taught me more about God and Jesus and life than a thousand sermons ever could.”

  “What did he say?”

  Christine could hear the emotion in Paul’s voice. “He said love is stronger than pain.”

  She looked down and said nothing.

  After a while Paul said, “It’s late. I better get you back.”

  “Thank you for letting me stay for Pablo’s party. I really enjoyed it.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He slid forward off the rock and turned back, took her hand and helped her down. She landed in front of him, stumbling a little on the incline. He caught her by the waist.

  “Whoops,” she said, falling into him. She backed off a little and from just a foot away looked up into his face. In the moonlight his eyes faintly glimmered, and she wondered if she had ever seen such beautiful, clear eyes.

  “I have a confession,” he said.

  She cocked her head. “Yes?”

  “The first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I hoped that I would see you again. Tonight was a wish granted for me.”

  For a moment she just looked at him. “I think that is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  As they stared into each other’s eyes, the world around them drew far away. They pressed their lips and their bodies together and for a moment they were lost in each other.

  When they parted, Christine was breathless. Her heart pounded fiercely. “Thank you for being so kind to me,” she said. “My heart needed some kindness.”

  “It wasn’t hard,” Paul said.

  He held her hand as they descended the hill, holding it until they were back inside El Girasol’s courtyard. Christine thought that his hand felt wonderfully warm and strong.

  “My car’s around the side. I’ll pull it around.”

  “Wait,” she said. “What time is it?”

  “Probably one.”

  “How long will it take to drive to Cuzco and back?”

  “A little over an hour.”

  “That means you won’t be back until after two. I don’t want to make you do that. I could just sleep here tonight. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I’ll sleep up in the boys’ dorm. You can stay in my room.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “It’s more convenient than driving to Cuzco.”

  “I’d have to let Jessica know.”

  “I have Jim’s cell-phone number. I’ll call him.”

  They climbed the short set of steps where they had eaten lunch the first day and walked through a door into a broad, high-ceilinged hallway.

  There were no lights, though it didn’t seem to make a difference to Paul. Christine stayed close to him as he led her deeper into the darkness. They stopped outside a closed door at the end of the corridor. He pushed the door open into utter blackness and walked in and found a cord hanging from the ceiling. A single bulb illuminated the room. “It’s not much but it’s home.”

  She looked around. The room was small and windowless, with brown plaster walls.

  “The bathroom’s right next door. If you need to use it, there’s a flashlight on the floor there. It scares the bugs away.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding,” he said. Christine suspected that he wasn’t. He took a large, bright orange T-shirt out of a wooden dresser. “You can use this as a nightshirt.”

  “Thank you. You’ll call Jim?”

  “Right away.”

  “Thank you. Goodnight.”

  “Buenas noches,” he replied, and stepped to the door.

  “Paul.”

  “Yes?”

  Christine walked to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward and kissed him gently on the mouth. They lingered, their noses touching, feeling the warmth of each other’s breath. “Thank
you,” she said softly. “I had a really good time.”

  “So did I. Sleep well.”

  He kissed her on the cheek, then quickly stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

  Christine listened to his steps grow faint down the hallway and her heart longed to call him back. When all was silent, she sat on the bed. “What are you doing?” she said aloud. She looked around the room. On the wall, hanging from a nail driven into the plaster wall, was a picture of an elderly couple. She guessed the couple to be Paul’s parents. They looked to be in their seventies; a thin, tall man, conservatively dressed in a gray suit with narrow lapels and a broad, ample woman in a simple navy blue sheath. Banana and orange, she thought. The woman was standing, so she guessed that the picture had been taken before the onset of her illness.

  Next to the picture was a diploma. Georgetown Medical School.

  On the floor, leaning against the wall was a large pile of books. She lifted one briefly and examined it. It was a medical text on ALS. She set it back down then undressed, carefully folding her clothes and setting them on the crate. Then she pulled on Paul’s shirt. It was large and fell just above her knees.

  She tugged the light cord and the room fell into complete darkness. She climbed into bed and pulled the sheets up to her chin. Though she felt a little anxious about being in this strange place there was something secure about being in Paul’s bed and wearing his shirt. She thought of the evening and their kisses and she smiled. She wondered what he was thinking. And then she wondered how she could feel so close to a man she barely knew.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  Feelings can be like wild animals—we underrate how fierce they are until we’ve opened their cages.

  PAUL COOK’S DIARY

  Christine woke to the sound of hushed voices and giggles. Six boys stood at the door looking in at her. Suddenly she heard Paul’s voice. “¿Qué están haciendo, mirones? Vamonos.”

  The boys scattered as he came near. He peered into her room. Something fluttered in her stomach when she saw him. “Hi,” she said.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, walking into the room. “They’ve never had a woman stay here before.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. She gazed at him as if she’d just woken from a pleasant dream to find it was true. He was carrying a plate with a small bowl balanced on it in one hand and a cup in the other.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s a little past ten. Your bus just pulled in.”

  “Ten?” She sat up, lifting the sheet with her. “I slept in.”

  “They’ll be okay without you.”

  She felt her hair. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

  “No. I mean, you are, but you look cute.”

  She smiled. “What have you got there?”

  “I brought you breakfast. Pancakes. And juice.”

  “Breakfast in bed.”

  He walked over with the meal. “In case you’re wondering what’s in the cup, it’s our own version of maple syrup. We melt vanilla and water and sugar together. The strawberries were grown here.”

  “Thank you.”

  He set the plate on the crate next to her and to her surprise he turned to go. “I’ll see you outside.”

  “Wait.”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “Can you stay?”

  He looked at her as if it were a difficult decision. “Sure.” He came back and sat down on the bed next to her. She put the plate in her lap and began cutting the pancakes in small, precise squares.

  “I haven’t had breakfast in bed since my mother brought it to me on my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Then you’re overdue,” he replied.

  She poured a little of the homemade syrup on the pancakes, then took a bite. “This is good. I didn’t know you could make your own syrup.”

  “Deprivation spawns invention. You should try my guinea pig chili sometime. It’s amazing.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” She picked up one of the strawberries and put it up to his mouth. “Here.” He took a small bite then she finished it, setting the green velvet stem on her plate.

  He watched her eat in silence. For all his kindness she sensed that he’d rather be someplace else.

  “Do you need an assistant today? I’m told that I’m pretty good with wire.”

  He didn’t smile. “I need to go into Cuzco. The police have a new boy they want us to take in.”

  “Would you like me to keep you company?”

  He didn’t look up right away, and when he did, his expression was strained. “I don’t know how long this will take. I don’t want to hold up your group.”

  To her heart it sounded like an excuse and she felt her own defenses rise. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  He glanced down at his watch. “I should probably be on my way.”

  Christine said coolly, “I think we’re leaving around two. Will you be back before then?”

  “I should be,” he said. He slowly stood. “I better go.”

  Christine set aside the tray, wondering what she had done to scare him off.

  “Well, I hope to see you then,” she said. He started to leave then stopped. “Chris…”

  She looked at him, unwilling to let him see she was hurt. “Yes?”

  “Take care of yourself.” He walked out, leaving her feeling empty.

  She looked down at the food but no longer felt hungry. She put the tray aside and got dressed, then went out to find Jessica.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Today I said goodbye to Christine. As brief as her stay was (and as painful as our parting was) I still consider her a gift—like a cool breeze on a hot day.

  PAUL COOK’S DIARY

  By the time Christine emerged from the hacienda, the group was already at work on the greenhouse. The sun was high and bright and the contrast from the darkened room made her cover her eyes as she crossed the courtyard. When Jessica saw her coming, she put down her pliers and made a beeline to her.

  “Spare no details.”

  Christine signed. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You spent the night with a gorgeous man and nothing happened?”

  “I didn’t spend the night with him, I just slept here. It was after one when we finished. I didn’t want to make him drive me all the way back to Cuzco.” Christine started walking toward the greenhouse.

  “What did you do?”

  “We had a birthday party for Pablo. We broke a piñata and ate pizza and cake.”

  Jessica stopped walking. “Until one in the morning?”

  “We went for a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  Christine smiled at the memory. “It was nice.”

  “You just walked.”

  “And talked.”

  “About what?”

  “Things. His life. Mine.”

  “Did you tell him about Martin?”

  “Yes.”

  Jessica cringed. “Christine, you’re such an open book. So where did you sleep?”

  “In his room.”

  Jessica raised an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t sleep with him. Paul slept upstairs with the boys.”

  “So what is he really like?”

  “He’s a gentleman.”

  “You mean he’s boring.”

  Christine sighed in exasperation. “End of conversation.”

  “I’m not done. So where is he now?”

  “He had to go to Cuzco.”

  “And you didn’t go with him?”

  “He didn’t know if he’d be back in time.” She looked down. “Besides, I think I scared him off.”

  “I’m sure that telling him about Martin helped.”

  “I don’t think it was that. I was just so”—she hesitated—“eager.”

  Jessica shook her head. “Chris, eager is the kiss of death with men. You know that.”

  “Well, I guess I’m just an idiot.”

  “I didn’t mean t
hat.” She pulled Christine into her. “Sorry, honey.”

  “Me too.” She sighed deeply. “Let’s go work.”

  They broke for lunch an hour later. Christine couldn’t stomach the thought of another fatty ham sandwich. Instead she went to the bus and found her suitcase. She found her cache of protein bars and ate one, then changed into fresh clothes. Then she tore a page from her journal and wrote Paul a note.

  Dear Paul,

  I want to thank you for the last few days. What you do here at the Sunflower is beautiful. I will never forget my time here, the children or especially last night. You helped me in ways you will probably never know.

  She lifted her pen, hesitant to write what she really felt. She continued.

  If I have said or done something to hurt you, I am truly sorry. You are a very dear man.

  I wish you happiness.

  Affectionately,

  Christine

  She folded the note and put it in her pants pocket, then went back to the greenhouse to work.

  It was a little after one o’clock that things began to wind up. By half past the hour Jim shouted, “Time to go.”

  “But we’re not done,” Mason said.

  “The men of the village will finish up,” Jim said.

  “You said we’d be here until two,” Christine said.

  “I know, but we really should get on the road. It looks like it might rain, and this afternoon’s our only chance to see Ollantaytambo.”

  Christine’s heart sank. The small chance she had of seeing Paul again had just diminished. As Christine and Jessica climbed the back stairs into the courtyard, she glanced around the courtyard for one last look. She said to Jessica, “I need to say goodbye to Roxana.”

  “You better hurry.”

  “I’ll run.” Christine looked in the dining room for Paul, but no one was there except two of the boys, Carlos and Ronal. “¿Dónde…está…Paul?” she asked.

  Carlos shrugged.

  “No sé.” Ronal said, “Cuzco.”

  “¿Dónde está Roxana?” she asked.

  They pointed up toward her room.

  “Gracias.”

  Christine ran up the stairs. Roxana was in her room playing with her hair combs and ribbon. When she saw Christine, she immediately stood and walked to her, her hands raised to be picked up. Christine crouched down and held her. Her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to say goodbye. She wondered how Roxana would react.